What depressing creatures these journalists are! What a tragedy it must be to live this way, forever conscious of the superficiality and purposelessness of one’s writing, yet doomed to continue pouring it forth. How can one inhabit such a position without lapsing into despair?
If our conversation with Mr. Cooper is any indication, the answer is that one cannot. It is, in fact, not terriby fun writing five new Trump stories per fortnight. Thus one only has two possible means of protection against the realization of the emptiness of one’s work: (1) touchy defensive posturing, à la Mr. Bouie (of the school that likes to say “How dare you impugn my work!”) or (2) ritual confession and self-flagellation à la Mr. Cooper (in which the journalist convinces himself that, so long as he does not pretend to do more useful work than he knows he is doing, it is acceptable to remain useless.)
There is something very odd indeed about this kind of attitude toward one’s career. The political opinion-writer produces every word as if he is deeply invested in the consequences of an issue. As Mr. Cooper told us, these things matter. Yet he behaves as if these things do not matter very much at all; when confronted with the stakes he shrugs, says “Hey man, I’m just looking to pay my rent.”